


breathe me in, taste my words

by aetherae



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, but also it's kind of softer and more romantic than i expected it to be, sansa gets frisky: the fic, the main point of this is: it's embarrassing. i'm embarrassing. i'm also embarrassed.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:28:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22923343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aetherae/pseuds/aetherae
Summary: Much to her surprise, marriage has only made Sansa less of a lady, not more. She doesn’t mind terribly, but maybe that’s because Jon doesn’t either.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 36
Kudos: 220





	breathe me in, taste my words

**Author's Note:**

> me, tagging my previous jonsa fic w/ "jon and sansa have definitely been going at it like rabbits": haha too bad i can't write smut for shit and will never actually write that  
> me now: it's me, i am boo-boo the fool
> 
> this is legitimately my first time ever writing anything even remotely smutty, yet here i am with. whatever this is. i don't even know if i've rated this properly? what's the real difference between non-explicit sex and explicit sex, i sure can't tell??? so i apologize deeply if this isn't any good lmao. honestly i feel like this general idea has been done a hundred times over in jonsa fic, but like.... if that's the case, no one's gonna complain about there being more of it, right!!!! that's what i'm hoping for at least. 
> 
> without further ado, i hope you enjoy!
> 
> (title taken from 'make you feel' by alina baraz)

It is, perhaps, rather wicked of her to act as such. No, it most certainly is. Her old Septa would surely faint in shock if she heard her, and in fact, she thinks Jon himself is likely to do so every time. Even so, Sansa simply cannot help herself all the same.

Her debauchery begins at a joyous occasion: Arya’s and Gendry’s wedding.

Truthfully, she didn’t think they would marry, especially as Arya still regularly voyages out west of Westeros. How they came together in such a formal union, Sansa has no idea, but she’s nevertheless overjoyed. She and Jon waste no time in making the journey down to Storm’s End to help the two prepare and bear witness to their marriage. The celebrations after go long into the night, and even amidst all the increasingly drunken-revelry, servers still come out with food all the while, lemon cakes most of all.

It’s a sweet gift from Arya. She smiles to think that her little sister went to such lengths to have the cakes served here for her, all because her own wedding with Jon happened so soon after the war, there was little time nor money for revelry and indulgences such as these. If she were younger, she would gladly while the whole night away doing nothing but dance and eat lemon cakes. But the woman she is now counts down the minutes till she and Jon can retire for the night and indulge in their own personal, private revelries.

“Would you like another lemon cake?” her husband asks from her side, lips turned up in a boyish, teasing grin. His smile is as mischievous as it is sweet, but looking at his mouth, she can only think of when his smile looked like sin, plump from her kisses and wet with her arousal. With how busy they’ve been in assisting Arya and Gendry, they’ve had little time to spare for each other, let alone for more physical intimacies. It’s been far too long since his smile last looked like that.

“What I would like,” she says evenly, as if speaking of the wedding, the food, anything else aside from this, “is to have your mouth between my legs.”

“Sansa!” he splutters, eyes darting around them. No one sits beside Jon, but on Sansa’s other side sits another guest, deep in conversation with the person next to them.

Even so, she continues, slowly trailing her hand up his thigh beneath the table. Her heart pounds so hard, she wonders if he can feel it through her touch, even as she keeps her tone light. “All I can think of is if I sat myself in front of you on this table, would you devour me then, as I’ve devoured these lemon cakes? Do you think I’d be as sweet? Would you savor my taste the way I’ve savored our dessert?”

He grasps her hand tightly, mere inches away from his hardened manhood, and brings it to his lips in an open-mouthed kiss. His warm, gray eyes are nearly black from his desire. She licks her lips, never looking away.

“I think you know exactly how well I savor your taste, my lady.”

And he shows her not two halls away from the banquet when he presses her to the wall to dive under her skirts, his tongue sliding through her wet folds and thumb pressed at the center of her pleasure. If not for the music still playing, she thinks the entire keep would hear her cries.

Looking back, she can scarcely believe how wanton she acted that night, even if Jon never once complained. Just remembering her behavior then is enough to make her cheeks flush, and Sansa convinces herself she never would have acted as such if not for all the wine she indulged in for the feast. The Lady of Winterfell is no harlot, but a lady, and she certainly means to act it.

Or so she tells herself, but in truth, she finds herself tempted again and again once they return home.

With the wars over and no major threats to their borders, she sees little point in Jon maintaining his training as rigorously as he does. Like clockwork, she finds him in the training yard come afternoon, sparring with the others. Especially now, soldiers and small folk alike spread tale of Jon as the best swordsman in all of Westeros. Still, even as winter continues, he trains hard enough to work up sweat. More than once, she’s come upon him stripping his jerkin, training with only the thin fabric of his tunic. On those days, such as today, she stays to watch.

He moves gracefully, powerfully, the lines of his body sinuous and smooth. Just that morning she felt that power for herself as he rocked into her over and over, his muscles rippling under her touch when she clung to him, panting. From her hooded vision, he looked very similar then to as he does now: the sweat at his brow, the tightness of his grip, the lithe form of his body.

They end their sparring, and when Jon turns around and spots her, his eyes light up in pleasant surprise. Usually, she leaves before the training ends. Sometimes she has enough discipline to return to her duties, and sometimes she rushes back to their chambers so she may frig herself in peace. Today, as she walks toward him, she feels a little bolder.

“Sansa,” he says, smiling as he takes her hand in his. Jon presses a chaste kiss to her fingers, and even through her gloves, she can feel the heat of his mouth. How silly that after all this time and all they’ve done together, he still sets her heart aflutter with so simple and sweet a gesture. Nevertheless, her cheeks flush, he smiles wider, and she knows there’s no denying it. “It’s unusual for you to be at the training yard. Is there anything I can help you with?”

All around them, soldiers continue to spar and train, others conversing and laughing as they take a break. Even with the noise, it would be so easy for anyone to overhear the Queen in the North speak to her lord husband. She nearly grins at the thought of it.

“Yes, there is. I was hoping you might fuck me again the way you did this morning.”

He swallows, eyes dark and grip tightening around her hand. His voice is near a growl when he whispers lowly, “ _Sansa_. This isn’t the place or time for th—”

“Watching you move just now, I couldn’t help but remember how it felt when you moved over me, into me. I grew so wet from just the thought of it, I fear I’ll have to change my smallclothes.”

“Your grace!” one of the soldiers calls out. “Will you be joining us for another round?”

Jon licks his lips, never taking his eyes off her as he replies, “No, I’m afraid not. I’ve matters to discuss with the queen.”

There’s little discussed when he takes her in an abandoned alcove right by the training yard, nothing save for her moans muffled against his shoulder as he tells her how good she feels, how wicked she is to drive him mad like this, how much he loves it when she does. Her blood runs hotter with every deliciously filthy word that pours forth, her walls clenching even tighter when she thinks how chivalrous he was outside, as gentle and kind as the knights she dreamed of in her youth. That girl would be horrified to know how obscenely he speaks now. She’d be in hysterics to know she enjoyed it so.

 _Just as well_ , she thinks as they lie on the floor tangled together sated, laces half undone everywhere and their smallclothes nowhere to be found. For all her fanciful dreams and ideas of romance, the girl she was never could have imagined what it would be like to like to want someone, to love them so utterly and completely, and know that they loved and wanted you just as much in return. She would have fainted from the potent, heady shock of it.

Sansa places her hand against Jon’s cheek, smiling at his dazed, dreamy expression. He grips her hand in his own, holding her there, as he turns his head to kiss her palm. No, she would never have known this if not for him, she’s sure.

And so it goes, time and time again. It’s not how a lady wife ought to act towards her husband, let alone a queen. They break away from their duties more times than she can count, all because of her words and his lack of restraint that she only encourages. Some small part of her does regret that rather than easing his burdens or giving him comfort, her teasing words often only add to his burdens, even give him discomfort if the way he must maneuver his cloak in front of his breeches says anything. Still, that small regret cannot chase away the thrill of knowing just how deeply she can affect him with just a few words. She doubts she’ll ever tire of it.

 _Nor will Jon_ , she thinks with a smirk.

They’ve just called for an early break to petitions, Jon feigning a headache while Sansa promised to see him to the maester—after slyly mentioning to him how she missed the feel of his fingers inside of her, at least, all while seated in front of the lords and smallfolk making their petitions. Of course, she has no plans to bring her husband to his best friend. Sam would hardly appreciate being interrupted by the two of them and their plans, after all. Instead, Jon drags her all the way back to their chambers to press her against their barred door with a searing kiss. Her knees buckle as he ruts against her still-clothed mound, the pressure so intoxicating that she must break away from his mouth to cry out her pleasure.

He slows his hips down, almost lazy in their rhythm. It’s as delightful as it is agonizing, every ridge and line of his cock so present even through the barrier of her smallclothes, but the loss of that wondrous, maddening friction too much to bear. She huffs, bucking her hips to meet his own, but Jon only chuckles.

“Perhaps now you’ll think twice about taunting me so in public, hm?”

His fingers trail lightly up her thighs now, skirting along her skin until he cups her between her legs, firm and sure. He groans at the damp heat he finds, tearing away her smallclothes, and she stifles her moan in turn. Her voice is breathless and low even to her own ears, but still she presses her lips to his ear to tease, “Oh, please. You enjoy it as much as I do.”

“At least I have the courtesy to wait till we’re alone before I tell you my filthy thoughts. Or would you prefer I don’t?” He slides two fingers inside her, crooked just so the way he knows drives her wild, and she keens. His grin widens against her temple, his breath hot and heady. “Shall I hide under the table when you have meetings with your council, supping on your cunt all the while? Would you rather I fuck you out in the training yard for everyone to see, so everyone knows that you’re mine? Tell me what you want, sweetheart, and I’ll give it to you.”

She whimpers at his words, sweet and wicked all at once. From Jon’s moan when she tells him of all her wanton wishes though, she knows he must think the same of her words.

And thank the gods for that. No matter her unladylike depravity, so long as Jon enjoys it with her, Sansa sees little reason to change.

**Author's Note:**

> me: okay but how do you end the fucking  
> rev: The characters nut and then immediately fumble to the bathroom to clean up
> 
> Y'ALL LUCKED OUT THAT I DIDN'T JUST END THE FIC LIKE THAT TBH


End file.
